


Mothers

by GilliganGoodfellow



Series: Jaskier’s Monster [7]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Banter, Bathing/Washing, Childhood Memories, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Geralt sleeps through the whole thing, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Soft Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23243887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilliganGoodfellow/pseuds/GilliganGoodfellow
Summary: “Do relax, Jaskier.” Yennefer gently scolds as she moves to sit behind him. “We are two travelling companions sharing a bath. It’s hardly an orgy.”“And I suppose you WOULD know the difference.”That earns him a gentle slap on the back of his head, and they both chuckle.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Jaskier’s Monster [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1606360
Comments: 34
Kudos: 619
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	Mothers

Yennefer of Vengerberg slowly opens her eyes, and immediately regrets that most recent life choice. Because every inch of her body aches, and the side of her torso stings, and sleep seems like a really good idea again.

She shuffles slightly against the bedroll, and against the folded coat beneath her head, and she realises that the shirt and trousers that she is wearing are not her own. 

She lifts the shirt, and finds a bandage wrapped around her torso, dried blood seeping through where it covers the wound. 

“You’re awake.”

Yennefer looks round to find Jaskier kneeling beside the bedroll, his flamboyant coat cast aside in favour of a loose vest and trousers. It takes Yennefer a moment to realise that said coat is her pillow. 

He has a steaming cup of tea in his hands, which he holds towards her. 

“It’s ribleaf.” He says. “I made a pot. Helps my nerves, which are NOT helped by Leshy fights, incidentally.”

She slowly sits up. “Did you dress me, Bard?” 

“I’m not an expert on wearing corsets, but I assume they are not comfortable to sleep in.” He smiles. “And I assure you, my dear, that I was a complete gentleman.”

Yennefer chuckles, nodding her thanks as she takes the offered cup. As she does so, her hand brushes against his, and she sees the way his mouth twitches, his entire face...vulnerable for a moment.

Yennefer remembers loneliness.

Taking the cup in one hand, she uses the other to grip Jaskier’s. “Thank you.”

He takes a breath, smiling as he gives her hand a quick squeeze back.

Yennefer sighs. “Where’s Geralt?”

“Sleeping off the Dragon’s Dream smoke.” He looks past Yennefer, and she turns to see Geralt on the other side of the camp, laid against his own bedroll. 

“He inhaled enough to make him see sounds.” Jaskier shrugs. “My voice is blue, apparently.”

“Should I be glad I slept through his drug fueled ramblings?”

“Yes.” Jaskier can barely hold back his laugh as he looks fondly at the sleeping Witcher. “I am now privy to secrets that I will take to my pyre.”

Jaskier continues to watch the Witcher for a moment, his eyes shining, and Yennefer finds herself looking away, an intruder in a private moment.

She tests a deep breath, and thinks better of it.

“I...um...I didn’t know if you could have Witcher potions.” Jaskier shrugs. “Triss is allergic to the lot, but is that a sorceress thing or a Triss thing?”

“It’s a Triss thing.” Yennefer flinches slightly at the crick in her neck. “Do we have any Swallow? It will not work on me the way it does Geralt, but it will help with the pain at least.”

Jaskier makes his way to the saddle bags. “You PROMISE me that you’re not allergic. Triss can’t even have Swallow on her hands, she has to use tools and…”

“Celandine. Triss is allergic to every flower north of Nilfgaard.” She indicates the bard with a gentle nod. “Including jaskier.”

“Makes you wonder why she became a herbalist.”

“Know your enemy.” Yennefer says as she accepts the bottle from Jaskier, uncorking it and drinking the contents whole. She can’t help the small sigh that escapes her as the potion gets to work, calming the aches.

Jaskier takes back the empty bottle. “Now, be a good girl and finish your tea.”

Yennefer glares at him, but then smiles as she takes another sip from the cup. 

“We should go back to the Leshy’s body when we can.” She says. “Geralt will need…”

“The head.” Jaskier points at a blanket covered mound near where Roach is currently enjoying some leaves from a bush. “Had to use Geralt’s silver sword. Tough skin. And the SMELL...”

Yennefer is speechless for a moment, not so much by the mental image of Jaskier wielding a sword as by the way that the bard has just described decapitating a dead Leshy with the same tone that a butcher might use to describe preparing pork.

“Well then.” She sips the tea. “As soon as Geralt is awake, we can go back to the alderman for the reward.”

“And then to the Inn. I need a bath.”

“Agreed.” Yennefer mutters.

“My feelings.” Jaskier places a hand against his chest. “Last time I patch you up, Miss Vengerberg.”

Her response is sincere. “Thank you, Jaskier.” She toasts him with the cup, and then takes another sip. “And for the tea. This is nice.”

Jaskier smiles as he pours his own cup. “Better than apple juice?”

“NOTHING is better than apple juice.”

* * *

Geralt doesn’t so much wake up as sleepwalk with them back to the village, where one look at the Leshy head is enough to earn them their coin. That, and an offer of accomodation in the guest rooms above the stables.

The rooms are comfortable enough, two bedrooms leading into a small sitting area, and a washroom off from this. A washroom with a bathtub, for which Jaskier sends a small prayer to the god of the bards. 

Geralt, by this point, is fast asleep and snoring on the bed. Yennefer is curled beside him, her hand on his chest drawing light, absent minded circles. 

Leaving the two alone, Jaskier prepares the bath, adding salts and lighting a couple of candles in the room. 

A moan escapes him as he slips into the water, closing his eyes and laying back against the edge of the tub. He takes a deep breath, noting the smell from the candles, and loses time.

His thoughts naturally drift to Geralt, and how good it had felt when the Witcher had placed an arm over his shoulder, letting the bard help him along part of the road today. 

He is having a hard time remembering the last time they touched. 

In the seven years since Cintra, Geralt has become distant. It had been so gradual, like slowly boiling water, that the bard hadn’t noticed it at first. But the smiles had stopped. No more tender touches. Brotherly banter had become sharp barbs.

_It’s like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling._

And sometimes Geralt would demand he leave.

Where before their times apart would be short, now it could be months at a time between meetings, including one or two years where Kaer Morhen was the only place they met. 

For two years, Jaskier had stayed in Oxenfurt, accepting a teaching position.

For a while after that, he had been the official bard of the Cintra Royal Court. 

He hasn’t told Geralt about that yet. He hasn’t told Geralt about the dear Princess Cirilla, who loves ice skating and dancing and for whom Witchers are magical heroes slaying the monsters hiding under her bed. 

“ _Sing the song about how the Witcher saved the Striga.”_

_“You’re too young for THAT song.”_

_“Grandmother, make him sing it.”_

_A chuckle. “My granddaughter would like to hear the Striga song. Are you going to refuse a royal command?” Queen Calanthe and Jaskier share a smile, and she then picks up the Princess, holding her in a motherly embrace as they dance slowly._

_Jaskier sings the song, and wonders if his own mother ever held him like that._

_He can’t remember._

It is clear that Geralt regrets every syllable of declaring the Law of Surprise.

Jaskier worries that Geralt is starting to regret a lot of things. 

His hand encases the metallic circle of the medallion that he is wearing, one thumb stroking over the wolf symbol. The symbol of Jaskier’s entire world. 

What if...one day...Geralt regrets him? Jaskier. Jaskier and his burdens. 

What if Cintra was the beginning of the change, and Jaskier’s world is now slowly, SLOWLY, falling apart.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by the door opening and closing behind him, and he sits up in the bath, turning to find himself looking at Yennefer. 

The sorceress is wearing a towel and CLEARLY nothing else?

“Care for some company?” She says, calmly. As if she had just asked to join him at a dinner table.

Wiping at the corner of his eye, Jaskier looks at the bathtub. It’s certainly large enough for two people. Probably six, if those people were very good friends. 

He nods, moving down to one end of the tub and making a point of turning away slightly while Yennefer removes the towel and climbs into the water. 

“Keeping the wound clean?” Jaskier asks.

“It has already healed.” Yennefer says behind him. “Thanks in no small part to your expert ministrations.”

“And your being a sorceress.”

“AND my being a sorceress.” 

Jaskier flinches slightly as he feels a hand touch his shoulder. “Um…”

“Sit forward.”

Speechless and wide eyed, Jaskier quietly obeys.

“Do relax, Jaskier.” Yennefer gently scolds as she moves to sit behind him. “We are two travelling companions sharing a bath. It’s hardly an orgy.”

“And I suppose you WOULD know the difference.” 

That earns him a gentle slap on the back of his head, and they both chuckle.

“You’re naked.” He says, as if it’s a revelation. 

“You’ve seen it all before.”

“I’m naked.”

Yennefer hums. “Suddenly shy, Bard?”

“Geralt...”

“Is fast asleep.” Yennefer smirks. “And the lady being taken has never worried you before.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Geralt is my friend. I wouldn’t hurt him like that. Or you.”

“Or me?” Yennefer smirks as she picks up the sponge, mixing it with the soap before gently stroking it across his shoulder blades and back

“Yes, you.” Jaskier sighs. “Believe it or not, Yennefer, I don’t want to hurt you either. If only because I like being on speaking terms with Triss. And that is why I will not be taking advantage of this VERY bizarre situation, and may you recover from your sudden bout of madness soon.” He looks over his shoulder. “Are you SURE you’re not allergic to Swallow?”

“Yes.” She laughs. “And I assure you that my mental facilities are as sound as ever.”

“When we first met, you were trying to summon a djinn.”

“I admit it was not my finest first impression.”

“You certainly MADE an impression.” Jaskier nods, a small laugh in his voice. “Although not as big as the one you made on Geralt.”

They are quiet for a while, Yennefer lifting his arms and cleaning down them. Far from the awkward mess that it should be, Jaskier actually finds it relaxing.

“You’re thinking too loud.”

“I’m wondering what my safeword should be.” He quips. “Geralt, maybe?”

“It’s suppose to be something you WOULDN’T shout during sex.”

“Cheeky.” He laughs, his eyes falling closed as Yennefer drops the sponge and rests both hands against that bard’s back. 

“Any sensitive areas I should know about?”

“I am not even going to dignify that question with a response.” Jaskier is surprised by how calm his voice sounds, his closed eyes tightening as Yennefer begins gently massaging his shoulders and...and Melitele, this alone is worth the painful death that Geralt is going to give him later.

“Aenye.” Yennefer whispers, and the water’s temperature slowly climbs up, warming his muscles as without thinking Jaskier lets himself relax completely, ALMOST leaning back against Yennefer before remembering that they are both naked and Geralt is already going to kill him, best not add merciles torture to his fate.

Jaskier looks up. “Explain to me why we are both risking our lives.”

Yennefer laughs gently, and then sighs. “Do you want me to be honest?”

Jaskier nods.

“You were looking a little touch starved.” 

He looks down, swallowing against a sudden bout of emotion, which is not helped by the gentle feeling of a finger tracing idle shapes on his back.

“And I felt like indulging my maternal instinct.”

“Maternal?” Jaskier looks over his shoulder. “You’re younger than me. Surely.”

“What year were you born?” 

“1222.”

“You don’t look your age.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

“That you look younger than you are.” Yennefer says with an exaggerated tone of reassurance. “And, for the record, I am MUCH older than you.”

He hears water fall from Yennefer’s skin as she stands behind him, and then the sound of more water being scooped into a bucket. “Eyes shut, Bard.”

He does so just in time for the water to crash over his head, followed a few moments later by soap as Yennefer keels back down and works her fingers through his hair.

She continues to massage his hair long after it is clean, before finally encouraging Jaskier to lay back, grabbing a towel and bundling it against the edge of the bath where it acts as a pillow for the bard’s head. 

“Aenye.” She whispers again, warming the water enough to steam as she settles beside his feet, knees drawn to her chest for modesty.

“Thank you.” Jaskier says, eyes closed, voice so soft that he could easily have been talking in his sleep. 

“Your reward for looking after Geralt and myself after the fight.”

“Just being a useful travelling companion.”

Yennefer nods, although Jaskier can’t see it. 

“Can I ask a question?” Jaskier shrugs, his eyes still closed.

“Of course.” Yennefer adds soap to another sponge, and starts running it along her own arms. 

“When we were fighting the Leshy. Well, when you and Geralt were fighting the Leshy and I was hiding behind a tree.” He smiles, eyes still closed. “One of your spells, it summoned a spirit animal of sorts. A raven. To distract the Leshy while Geralt prepared his attack.”

“A foolish mistake.” Yennefer says, bringing the sponge to the back of her neck. “Took too much of my chaos.”

“You called her Eleanor. I heard you, you said ‘Eleanor, go for the eyes,’ And she did. She REALLY did. Pretty sure the Leshy was blinded.”

“She is a simple creature, but effective.”

“Eleanor is a lovely name.” Jaskier opens his eyes, looking at the ceiling. “I just wondered if she was named after someone? A sister maybe?”

Yennefer stills, the sponge falling from her hand into the water.

“Sorry.” Jaskier says, sitting up. Behind him, the towel falls to the floor. “I shouldn’t have asked. I...”

Yennefer shakes her head, and fiddles with the ends of her hair. 

It is a moment before she speaks.

“Eleanor was a baby girl.” She says. “Tiny. Barely one season into her life. I had already been alive half a century, but I had never seen something so purely innocent before I met her. And she was mine to protect, for a small time. She could have been mine to raise, maybe. Had destiny decided.”

“She died?”

“I failed her.” She closes her eyes. “We were attacked. An assassin. I tried to escape with a portal, but my aim was thrown and instead of a solid beach, I sent us into the sea. Eleanor drowned in my arms.”

“Yennefer, I...”

“Spare me your pity.” Yennefer’s tone is harsh, but her expression is not without kindness. “It was a long time ago, and I am at peace with it.” 

She looks away. “She would have been eighteen now. A woman. Sometimes I imagine what that woman would be like. Beautiful, I’m sure. Her mother was beautiful.”

“And with you as a role model, she would have been strong, wise, possibly crazy.” 

She smiles, wrapping her arms around her knees. 

“Do you…” She stops, shaking her head. 

“Yes.” Jaskier says, and the sorceress looks at him. 

“Of course. You still clearly love her after all this time. How is that NOT a good mother?”

Yennefer nods, making a point of splashing water onto her shoulders before splashing her face to hide the tears forming.

“Do you remember YOUR mother?” Jaskier asks after a moment. 

“Yes.” Yennefer nods. “She wasn’t perfect, but she was kind, when she could be.” Her voice becomes colder. “When my step-father allowed it.” She shakes her head. “She doesn’t feel like mine anymore. She feels like a story I’ve been told. THAT version of Yennefer, she died at Aretuza. I killed her a long time ago."

Yennefer looks at Jaskier. “What about you? What is your mother like?”

“She died when I was two. Catriona Plague.” Jaskier shrugs. “I don’t remember her. I don’t even know what she looked like. Father never speaks of her, and...and his house has no portraits.”

“Why?”

“My mother was half elf.” He chuckles, but the sound is sad. “A bit of a scandal in a noble family. I suppose there was a time when my father DIDN’T care just for reputation.” 

Silence, and then Yennefer clicks her fingers loudly.

“What?” Jaskier looks at her.

“Geralt owes me 5 crowns.” 

The bard blinks.

“You have barely aged a DAY since he met you. He bet Fae child, left in a dead baby's stead. I guessed elf blood. That, or a VERY tall Godling.”

Jaskier smiles, but then looks away, eyes fixed on the far wall. 

Yennefer runs a finger over the surface of the bath water, and back again, before looking up at Jaskier. “Do you trust me?”

“No.” He says. “Not even remotely.” 

“Could you pretend to?” She says sincerely, lifting up her hand and holding it out to him. After a moment, Jaskier takes it.

“Close your eyes.”

He narrows his eyes at her, before closing them completely.

“Picture a box. Wooden, a golden clasp. Any thoughts you don’t want me to see, imagine them going into the box and then lock it. I will honour the mark it leaves on them.”

“I might be a while.”

Yennefer chuckles. “Tell me when you are ready.”

Eventually, Jaskier hums. “Okay?”

Yennefer smiles. “We don’t lose our memories, we just forget how to remember them.”

Jaskier swallows, and waits. 

He feels like he leaves the room, no longer conscious of the heat of the water. Everything is a dark void now. A nothingness. He stands in the middle, and he hears a child laughing.

It’s him. Smaller. And he pulls himself to a standing position against the table. Moves his legs the way the big people do, and walks along. 

And Mother claps as she watches him. “Well done, Julian.”

Her hair is the same colour as his, falling in long curls. The eyes are the ones that look back at adult Jaskier in the mirror. Bright. Full of light.

“Now come to me. Come on.” She holds out her arms. 

“She’s beautiful.” Yennefer says, her voice a whisper in the back of his mind as he relives the memory.

The baby takes a step towards her, stumbles, but is caught before he hits the floor, instead being lifted up into a cuddle. Mother smiles, stroking his cheek, and then laughs as a small hand reaches up, wrapping a tiny fist around her fingers.

_She did hold him._

Coming out of the trance, Jaskier returns to the room, and looks down at the water. 

“Do you want me to try and find another memory of her?”

“Please.” Jaskier whispers.

* * *

When Yennefer wakes the next morning, Geralt is still asleep beside her, snoring gently, one arm lazily draped over the sorceress. 

She smiles at him, turns her head, and sees a folded parchment laid beside her on the pillow.

She picks it up, unfolding it to what she expects to be a letter...but she is wrong. 

The drawing is of a young woman running barefoot through a field, one hand reaching out to touch the tops of the tall flowers that she is passing. 

She is facing away, her long hair falling in beautiful curled tresses against the back of her dress. 

Smiling, Yennefer gently hugs the drawing to her chest and closes her eyes. And as she does so, she thinks that she can hear Eleanor laughing as she runs.


End file.
